Contradanza.00

O teu passo frenético deixa-me nervoso, agitado, inquieto. É a tortura habitual ao ritmo lento e moroso de quem carrega a cruz às costas. E porquê, perguntas-te uma e outra vez, porquê? De todos os macacos deste mundo és o único que o poderia responder mas as sílabas são escassas e no fim não se ouviu nada. Porra. Não há forma de sacudir esta ânsia, esta fome de algo incerto como a chuva que nos lava a alma. Mas por momentos quase dançamos ao mesmo ritmo e o peito enche de música! Cada batida ecoa, martelando as paredes do teu mundo gretado, cada barra traz a promessa de algo mais. Assim perdemos contas às contas e às cordas bambas que hesitamos conquistar. Talvez já durma profundamente mas a música não para e uma voz distingue-se à distância. Dorme. Dorme.

1x00: Fugit Irreparabile Tempus

"Time. Fleeting as it may be, a moment will come to pass for it to tick and thus to tock. It's this ebb and flow that drives our reveries, our hopes and dreams or lack thereof. Existence itself. Does God experience time? Or do we unwittingly experience God, only to squander it away in the pursuit of the absurd?"
Another minute rolls by, swiftly marked by a resonant clack.
"Both these questions raise scores of assorted convolutions and uncertainties, backed by the fact (or rather the most reasonable assumption) that they'll ever remain unresolved. Only the most naïve would eagerly await an explanation of the ineffable, for how could a finite consciousness even begin to comprehend such a boundless concept?"
The sparse beating of the clock hands seems fainter every minute.
"But it is perhaps this indeterminacy that impels us to our inertial demeanour. Whether urgently racing the clock or yearning for it to stop altogether, the fact remains that everything and everyone is bound by their place in time as well as in space. It begs the question: do we exist any number of seconds away from now?"
It's pitch black, the smell of blood surrounding. Silence is absolute.
"And if we do, does it not infer a deterministic cage that we cannot even remotely perceive or escape? In fact, whatever the answer the implications are insurmountable. Once more, we are relegated to ignorance, unaware of the fabric of our own universe. Impatiently we pace, back and forth, watching time wither away."
The flicker of a flame pierces the darkness all around, shadows flickering nervously.
"Time. Fleeting or not, our stock is absurdly limited and eternally diminishing. Tick, tock, there goes another undefined interval of time between what was now and an arbitrary instant in the past. Such is the futility of our efforts that the present itself is nothing more than a snapshot to remind us that Time does not look back."
Taking his last sip, he kindles the photograph in his hand.
"But we do."
The photo is quickly consumed, soon remaining nought but ashes and smoke.

Vertigo

Moving for the sake of motion, thinking for the sake of clarity. It all seems so contrived as the world revolves again. It's a foul habit, but alluring nonetheless. So here I stand atop the world and yet my thoughts are on the ground. It's just my endless endeavour, the pinnacle before the plunge. Some might say that my demeanour is appalling, a reckless pursuit of a swift and inevitable demise but if that was so, I must ask, why don't I just leap? Were it not for the looming gorge, the rush of balancing on life's edge would be laid to waste. When faced with the abyss, the solicitude abates. It's a transient high but nevertheless ephemeral. It's to be expected as you bypass Death's clutches once again. It may be your tightening grip that holds you to the ledge but with eyes closed you're hovering above the world and the restlessness you can't elude. I'm clearly mad, a raving lunatic, ever gambling life away. But here I stand atop the world, and I wish not to come back down.

São escarlate,

com toques de carmesim.
como todas elas morrem,
sozinhas
à espera de mim.
Eram escarlate,
com carícias de carmesim.
sem surpresa lá se esquecem
de mim
e também de ti.

Sou Alexandre Magno,

o mata-moscas mais letal da Grécia antiga.

zero

Run faster. Work harder. Spend more. Think less. The machinery is already in place, every cog turning in perfect unison with each other to make the world go around. We are enslaved by an automaton, forced to consent by none other than ourselves. To accept our captors as a necessary evil, are we not suffering from Stockholm's Syndrome? How blissful it must be to see our downfall as inevitable and simply not care. We are all the sheep who shear themselves. We are rats racing to the cheese trap. What purpose is there to a warning that no one takes heed? Nihil.